


laziness

by overkidd



Series: mchanzo prompts [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 05:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overkidd/pseuds/overkidd
Summary: hanzo pushes himself too hard.





	laziness

It begins as a dull throb in the back of his head before working it’s way outwards, pressing against the edges of his skull, begging to be let out; the promise of a migraine at the archer’s peripheral, the edges of light caught in his eyes beginning to tint with an array of colors, as his throat grows wet and his body begins to shake- pathetic, useless, without worth. He presses his body against cold concrete, brings a palm up to his lips against his own desires, and feels a rush of bile flow freely from mouth to hand- he provides a disgusted sneer, tries hard to ignore the dark burgundy that smells too much like metal alloys and death, flicks it away with a growing distaste as he tries to focus his vision once more on to the battlefield.

The cowboy barks something or another at him through the com and he’s already on it before he can really even process the man’s words, drawing back upon his bowstring despite the growing protests of his body- the pleading ache from within his core to stop- releases three arrows in rapid succession; each dispatching their target with practiced ease, he feels his lips quirk up in spite of the pounding sensation making it’s home between his temples barely registering McCree’s gratitudes beyond that of a muffled hum.

He prays for a lull in the fight so that the fuzziness within his sight may fade or the growing nausea might subside, then quickly crushes said desire beneath his metaphorical heel, appalled that he would think something so selfish and juvenile; he can swear that in the fog of his mind he can hear his mentor’s voice, rightfully demeaning him, slurs rattling within the cage of his mind- feeble, expendable, broken. Hanzo stands, pulls back upon his bow once more, relinquishes another swell of projectiles and each pitiful whine within his body is met with familiar words in a voice he hadn’t heard in more than a decade. ‘You are not a child, get up, do it again.’ Again, again, again. He keeps pushing forward, every protest smothered almost instantly, and when their victory is proclaimed all he can feel is contempt for himself- he could’ve done more, easily, if he wasn’t so weak.

He sits down, seiza, places his weapon across his lap and allows himself to rest against his cover. He knows he cannot stay there much longer, that he needs to regroup sometime soon, but with the adrenaline slowly ebbing out of his system the overwhelming hurt begins to wash over him anew; it comes from his center but quickly works its way to the outermost parts of him, he had no doubt if he were to look at his hands they would be shaking, 'like a leaf in a hurricane’ the gunslinger would say; he huffs out something that’s a little too dry to call a laugh, lets his shoulders go lax and puts most of his weight upon the concrete backing rather than the sharp edges of his prosthetics.

He steadies his fingers long enough to tug at the end of his ribbon- dragging the fabric from his hair -sighs softly as the steady pressure of the tie falls away offering a brief relief from the twinges of pain raking his head inside and out. “Shimada-san!” A short-lived reprieve. “I know your ass is up there! C'mon now, we won, stop broodin’ for a moment will ya?" The noise the archer made was rather undignified for a man of his supposed caliber, weary and too similar to a child’s whine, as he forced himself to sit straight along with pivot the upper portion of his body towards the gaudy cowboy. 

He hesitates and the archer wonders idly if perhaps he looks as awful as he feels, can only discern it through the flightiness of his vision and how the corner of his lips keep trembling every time he tries to school it into a harder scowl; the wind shifts strands of freed hair across the shorter’s face and it’s with the subtle shift of Jesse’s attention that he realizes what exactly caught the it, calloused fingers brush back the few locks that threaten to fall between pale lips, dark eyes scrunching in amusement. "We- ah- need to get back to the shuttle, anyways, so ya gotta come down.”

“Very well.” Hanzo doesn’t bother hiding the playfulness within his tone, he suspects that McCree knows he was caught anyway, and focuses on securing his bow upon his shoulder. The presence of someone else forces all thoughts of lingering pain away but he can’t help but sway as he stands and falter upon to edge of the rooftop, he steps off it, feels gravity take hold- dragging him down, down, down -until metal meets ground and jolts him hard enough that he can’t help but stumble. The cowboy’s there in an instant, gaze flickering about his teammate’s personnel, and he’s uttering something or another about having more tact than that followed by a distressed 'holy shit, you look fucking awful.’ 

The archer jerks out of the other’s grasp, tries shouldering pass, takes three wavering steps before the scene around him starts to swirl only to disappear completely with the resounding crack of a person’s head upon stone. He could probably force himself back up, if he truly wanted to, but between the warmth that comes from the blood seeping out of his skull and the arms of someone trying to lift a wounded body without damaging it further he can’t seem to will himself; he let’s his head lull forward, presses his nose into the solidness of a shoulder as his legs slot against the cowboy’s waist, ignores the way Jesse’s breath hitches or the feeling of hands beneath his thighs- too tired to feel shame in being carried like an infant, too tired to notice the bubbling upset within himself at the intimacy, too tired to pay mind to the quiet voice in the back of his mind calling him the lazy whelp he is.


End file.
